


Mended and Whole

by strive2bhappy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-15 23:29:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1323280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strive2bhappy/pseuds/strive2bhappy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> Things between them are tenuous at best.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Title:  Mended and Whole  
Pairing: Sam/Dean  
Rating:  NC17  
Warning: spoilers for all aired episodes  
Summary:  Things between them are tenuous at best.  
A/N: oh my word, this started out as a coda to southern comfort, then became a coda to citizen fang and then because the UNIVERSE has been out to get me and not let me get stuff done, it morphed into a coda for torn and frayed. i'm posting it now because if i don't get this out, i'm worried it'll never let go of my brain and i'll have serious problems for life.

seriously.

okay, with that said, this picks up where torn and frayed left off. it's got some schmoop in it because i'm not capable of leaving it out. shocking, i know.

that should be all you need to know.....

 

 

 

 

The next few days are tenuous at best. They dance around each other, not saying much, defaulting to bringing each other food and drink at odd times of the day and not talking about anything specific.

They stay longer than Sam would have expected.

**

Sam runs. It's a thing. The walk he took on the first day showed him a trail that's a little grown up, but not too bad for actual running.

He's gotta do something. Things are a long way from perfect between them, but there's an odd nebulous harmony growing, a hum under his skin that says they're either going to come to blows or come on each other and he's really not sure which way he hopes it ends.

He's still pissed. Royally pissed at the text message. He's got a disturbing amount of nervous energy sizzling in his veins and if he stays too long in the same space as Dean he can't guarantee the adrenaline isn't going to manifest violently.  
  
So he runs.

It's cold and bracing and for the first mile, he concentrates on the burn in his legs, lungs. He studies the cadence of his feet, his breath, he lets the chill in the air seer him inside.

It's when he hits that rhythm, approaching the plateau of the runner's high, that his mind drifts.

He's not completely sure why he didn't go back. To Kermit. To her. It's possible they could have made a go of it, but there's so much about him she doesn't know. Like Jess, like history repeating itself, he didn't want to tell her about his life. Didn't want her to know.

When he saw her with Don, she did look happy. It's not like she doesn't have anyone. She admitted herself he loves her.

It's just. There was something. Something about the warehouse and Dean saving him from the demons and something reverberated in his stomach that said Dean would have his back, Dean would be there, Dean knows him -- really, truly knows him -- Dean would fight heaven and hell and purgatory for him and…that means something.

That means a hell of a lot.

He knows with Amelia it wasn't like he remembered. He recognized the truth of that like a bucket of water to his face the second he turned around in that bar. They were never on the same page, never really clicked -- just two grieving people, clinging to something, anything

He just…thought maybe for once, something could be easy. That losing himself in another person could just be about what they found together, what they had -- comfort without complication, closeness without chaos.

He just wanted -- _something_ \-- something bright and shiny to contrast Dean's new, trustworthy, reliable brother.

Admitting the petty jealousy to himself doesn't make it any easier to process, but the adrenaline and endorphin rush through his veins helps divert the swirl of disgust and stupidity that he feels.

It's ludicrous, after all these years, that Sam is still, _still_ , that gangly, geeky, clumsy, never-good-enough kid brother wanting Dean's undivided attention. That after everything, it all comes back to Dean.

But, here he is, on a dirt road in Montana, realizing at thirty-one that he's no farther ahead than when he was twelve.

It's a galling epiphany.

And yet, once Cas zapped him from that bench, and he saw Kevin and the boat and Dean, he knew he would be all in. Because doing anything else was unthinkable.

It's always been staggering the almost overwhelming need Dean is so easily able to draw out of him, seemingly without even being aware of the ability -- it's practically all Sam has ever known. Nearly every memory from Sam's childhood has Dean at its center.

Dean has quite literally been Sam's universe from the day he was born and he still feels the pull like a magnet. Always has.

And despite everything that's been said and done in the recent past -- despite the venom and the poisonous words and how pissed off Sam is -- and truly, the fury at times chokes him, especially when his brother answered that goddamn cell phone -- despite all of that, what he really wants, what he can't seem to scrub out of him is Dean.

He still wants the connection they had -- before purgatory, before SucroCorp, before the flash of black that snatched Dean from him yet again, left him bare and broken in an empty lab, white walls smeared black.

Jesus, he hadn't known what to do. His breath had echoed off those inky white walls and his gut reaction had been to call dad.

_Dad, I can't find Dean. Help. Please._

He wanted Bobby. So bad. He wanted that stupid, old, uncomfortable couch and peanut butter and banana sandwiches and Chuck Norris flicks and cheap whiskey.

_Bobby, Dean's gone again and I don't know what to do._

Hell, he wanted Lucifer back.

_Hey, Satan, my brother's missing. Don't you wanna taunt me some more._

The silence in his own head actually hurt.

He's honestly not sure what he did those first few months. Not until he hit that dog.

And now.

God, now he wants to be able to reach out to his brother and not fear a rebuke. He wants the casual touches that he never realized gave him such stability. He wants Dean -- for that telling split second -- leaning into him again. Part of him was so elated when Dean started having weird visions of Cas, just for the chance to reassure Dean physically with a brush of his hand down his brother's shoulder.

He wants the joking and laughter and pranks and sparks and everything that goes with being physically connected to Dean. He wants to wake up in the morning surrounded by his brother. He wants to fall asleep at night covered in come and spit and lube and Dean.

He wants it all, so bad, again, he's almost dizzy with it. But he knows he can't.

Because now there's Benny and Amelia and a year apart.

And there's this bizarre silence that neither of them seems to know how to cross and bitten off words and narrowed eyes and tightness in his chest, but at the same time there's this weird hope swelling, a truce almost, and sometimes he just wants to grab Dean and make it all go away. Force it, force them, back to what they had. He wants it so much, he's almost light-headed with the compulsion.

Sometimes he wants to punch Dean in his perfect, beautiful face. Wants to hurt him like he hurts.

But that's childish and immature and not responsible.

The push and pull of Sam's own impulses leave him fractured, spinning, looking for an anchor.

He loses track of how far he runs. By the time he gets back to the cabin, his fingers are shaking with the flow of blood and he's in desperate need of a shower.

The water calms him down, even though he's still sweating, and he's got a pretty decent endorphin buzz going as he settles in on the porch.

Sam tenses a little when Dean finds him fifteen minutes later, and sits down, leaving enough space for an enormously tall person to lie down between them.

Sam doesn't say a word, finds the rustle of the leaves on the trees utterly fascinating.

It takes a while -- Sam doesn't really count how long -- but Dean eventually clears his throat and starts. "Benny was working at a diner."

Just the mention of the name sets Sam's teeth on edge, but he remains quiet.

"Slinging hash and shit. With his great-granddaughter."

Sam frowns at this and Dean must be watching because he says, like he's answering a question Sam asked, "Yeah. Must've been when he was," Dean stalls over what Sam assumes is the word _human_. "…before." Sam can see Dean shake his head out of the corner of his eye. "Anyway, another vamp got word he was out and back home and wanted to start up a gang. Left a bunch of dead bodies 'til Benny said yes."

Sam wants to say _and you believe this?_ or _you, you, Dean Winchester, suddenly BFFs with a vampire?_ or _oh, sure, 'cause vampires are such fine, upstanding citizens,_ but he bites his tongue. Hard.

"We got the guy. The other vamp. I told Martin it was done. Told him to get outta Dodge and he said he would," Dean shifts somehow, boots kicking up against the base of the porch. "Only, he didn't. Went back for Benny. Used his great-granddaughter to do it. Benny didn't…he didn't have a choice, man."

Sam tries hard not to roll his eyes, but, Christ, what some people will believe.

Dean huffs a breath and Sam figures he maybe needs to work a little harder to keep his derision from showing.

It's quiet for a while and Sam decides it must be finished. Explanation over. So neat and tidy. Until Dean clears his throat again. "You gotta know, Sammy. The cell phone…it was…a contingency plan. For emergencies."

Sam grunts a laugh. He can't help it.

"Benny's fucking sharp."

Sam stiffens.

"Not that you're not. Jesus, don't put words in my mouth here, but purgatory was…it just, fuck, I don't know, hones you, I guess. Didn't need to eat or sleep or drink or anything. It was kill or be killed. Fight or die. We fought. We killed. We made it out. Weak people didn't."

Dean inhales, long and deep. Sam can tell he's uncomfortable talking even this much, but makes no move to speak or stop him.

"Look, m'not gonna say I'm sorry for doing it, 'cause I'd rather have you here and pissed at me than dead. That's never gonna…" Dean makes a noise somewhere between a cough and sigh. "M'sorry you're pissed though, for what it's worth."

It's fifteen minutes of silence before Dean gets up, goes back in the cabin and turns on the television.

Sam stays out a lot longer.

**

Sam's slumped on the couch the next day, flipping channels, and God, there's literally nothing on. His attention is that of a five year old and he keeps hitting the wildly out-of-date up button until colorful animation and bouncy songs snag his interest.

He never missed an episode of Thundercats when he was a kid and even still, more than twenty-five years later, he has an affinity for make-believe. He likes the exaggerated features and oblong faces and big eyes -- he likes that animated characters don't actually look all that real.

And he loves the hell out of Steve Carell, so he lets the remote fall off his thigh and settles in.

He hears a distinctive snort from behind him, but chooses to ignore it.

The movie's actually pretty funny and he tries hard to suppress his giggles, but he doubts he's all that successful, especially when he hears his brother murmur, "You're joking, right?"

Sam doesn't take his eyes off the television when he answers, "Thought you were researching or something?"

Dean grunts but doesn't respond.

When the character Carell is voicing declares the rocket ship _knocked over_ and Dean whispers, "Awesome," Sam suggests his brother join him on the couch. It takes a few more minutes, but by the time Gru is reading the story of the three little kittens, Dean's next to him, but not touching.

Sam's stomach feels funny when Gru assures Margo that he made a mistake, but she can still trust him.

_I will catch you and I will never let you go again._

He doesn't dare look over at Dean.

When the Bee Gees start singing, Dean gets up without a word.

Sam feels like he's on the wing of a plane with his arms extended but he has no idea how to get Dean to jump.

**

It's days later and Sam's in bed, still trying to get comfortable for the night, when he feels the covers lift at his back and Dean crawls in behind him.

His instinct is to bristle and he does, even though Dean must notice it. He knows should feel bad, but he's still touchy, unstable, vulnerable. "Dean?"

Dean speaks into the pillow behind Sam's head. "S'cold. You're warm. Go back to sleep."

Sam huffs to himself. _Yeah, like that's gonna happen._

He has to bite back an argument, part of him wants to roll over and physically shove Dean away -- mostly just to touch him, but he pushes that errant thought out of his head. Instead, he remains rigid and quiet, on his side watching the moonlight out the window and tries to block out the heat of his brother all along his back.

It doesn't work.

Dean's like fire. Warm, tempting, alluring in all the ways he shouldn't be.

Even as Sam wants to kick and hit and get some space back between them -- just flail and fight and finally, _finally_ , dig through everything he wants to say, he's still irrevocably drawn to Dean. If he concentrates, he can just make out the line of Dean's thigh against the back of his leg, the tips of Dean's fingers twitching against his spine, the cadence of Dean's breaths barely brushing the nape of his neck. He shouldn't -- God, he really shouldn't -- but for just a few minutes, he lets himself indulge in the closeness, the nearness of his brother.

The contradictions -- the push and pull, the need to do battle and puke everything he's feeling out between them -- and the overwhelming urge to just enjoy it, to revel in having Dean up against him again -- jumble inside him, the internal war freezing him on the spot, rendering him unable to react at all.

Minutes and hours pass in a haze of chaotic thoughts and half-consciousness and Sam doesn't think he could be more miserable. He tries to force sleep, but he can't get his mind or body to shut up long enough to really succumb. He recites the periodic table in his head, he counts backward from a hundred by threes -- four different times -- hell, he even take pi out as far as he can remember, but his mind always circles back around to his brother and Benny and how he's the one who saved Dean and the connection they'll always have now and the lump stuck heavy in Sam's chest because of it.

He knows he can end it by just getting up, but he actually can't bring himself to separate from Dean.

So fucking dumb.

He's caught, so wholly, in the endlessness of his own thoughts, of the view he can just make out beyond the ratty curtains, of the dark walls, of the scratchy blanket, of the ridiculous mental exercises he's trying to use to fall asleep, that he's shocked into abject paralysis when Dean's hand creeps over Sam's right hip, middle finger snaking between thigh and groin, palm cupping both balls through Sam's boxers.

Sam releases a breath like a shot, loud, so fucking loud, in the quiet room and his goddamn traitorous dick fills so fast it's like he's fifteen again -- when a stray breeze could get him rock hard between one blink and the next.

He almost says a million different thing _I can't, oh god, don't joke around, yes please, no way, don't let go_ , but it all gets mired and stuck in everything he wants to express and he can't say a word. His knees jerk slightly, like they want to open wide, let his brother in, prostrate himself to the only person who's ever made him feel even remotely alive.

The quivering starts from somewhere deep inside him, beyond his navel, he can feel it. Doesn't know how to respond, what to do and yet, somehow, he hears his own voice choking sound out of his mouth.  

"Is Benny more of a brother to you because he let's you fuck him like this or because he doesn't?"

It's the most surreal experience -- almost like he's a detached observer -- Sam can't believe the gritty words actually punched their way out of his throat -- but they did, fell right out into the darkness, without any real conscious decision on his part. They're heavy. Burdensome. Massive. And they seem to hover in the air.

Dean's entire posture solidifies like a statue, the hand on Sam's dick, Dean's breathing -- everything -- just stops. Dean's voice, when it comes, is nearly inaudible. "The fuck are you talking about?"

Instinct kicks in -- _deny, deny, deny_ \-- and Sam shakes his head, hair scratching against the pillow, and he cups his palm over the back of Dean's hand, grinding both their bones into the base of his cock and murmurs, "Nothing."

"No way," Dean says, tone suddenly firm, quickly approaching authoritative. He extricates himself from Sam's grasp and rolls Sam with just a little pressure on his hip. "The hell did that mean?"


	2. Chapter 2

Sam goes with the tugging and gravity and twists over to his back, can only barely make Dean out in the dim light from the moon -- propped up on an elbow, staring down intently.

Sam squirms because the move brought him closer to Dean, connected to his brother's heat -- practically from shoulder to ankle -- and despite the fact that part of him wants to talk, another part -- the one linked to the throbbing in his dick -- just wants to ignore everything and surrender to the pulse of hunger in his blood.

So he reaches for Dean's hand again, goes for distraction, "Dean..."

Dean curls his fingers into a fist and evades Sam's prodding. His words are hard. "Pretty much the most words you say to me in days and you think I'm just gonna let it go?"

Sam huffs, looks everywhere but at his brother. "Dean, it's...I just..."

"You what?" Dean almost growls. "I'm done with the silent treatment here, Sam. Fucking tell me."

Sam nudges, pushes a little, digs into the sheets and mattress and Dean's belly to get just an inch more space between them. "S'what you said...what you told me...in Missouri."

"What did I say?"

Sam clears his throat. "That Benny was more of a brother to you than I had ever been and I figured there has to be s-some reason," Sam fucking despises the catch in his throat and he tries somewhat desperately to get a hold of the simmering emotions just below the surface. "Some reason that you thought that and maybe..." he takes a deep breath here. "Maybe it had something to do with the fact that you and I...we..." shit, he really doesn't think he can say it again, "you know..." and he remembers Dean's voice from years ago  _you shouldn't be doing it if you can't say it, Sammy_ , "f-fuck around like we do or used to or...just," and now he's pissed, anger boiling up, never far from his reach, "you know what? Forget it, I don't actually give a shit why you think that...just, here," he grabs Dean's hand, rather combatively and jams it against his own crotch, cock still half-hard despite everything he just retched out between them, "do whatever the hell you want..."

Dean doesn't react, fingers still wrapped in a tight fist that rests passively against Sam's dick.

Sam's breathing is intense, ragged gasps, sawing like a blade, in and out, and he lies on his back, just waiting for his brother.

Dean pulls away and his voice, when it comes, contains a demeanor that vacillates rather wildly between quiet, forceful, sincere, sad and angry and leaves Sam unsteady, unable to concentrate on just one flavor, one tone. "I need you to listen to me here, Sammy," and Sam knows if he would turn his head, he would get caught in his brothers eyes and the potency he can hear pouring off of him. "M'not gonna rehash this, okay? So I'm sayin' it once and that's gonna be the end of it. Benny saved my ass. Period. If it wasn't for him, I'd still be there. It was his plan, his spell, his idea to get out and we did, we made it. I owe him, okay? Like dad taught us. You do a person a solid and they need something from you, you're there. S'just how it is."

Sam keeps his jaw locked tight on the dispute bubbling in his stomach.

Dean inhales deeply and releases it. "It's done, though. Benny and me. I told him I can't…just can't anymore. Both feet, you know?"

Sam's jaw quivers, he wants to ask if it's true, if Dean really did it because they have to be all here or nothing, but he can't get a word in.

"As for the him being more of a brother, I literally do not know what the holy fuck you are talking about. I never would have said something like that, you gotta know that. I get that you're pissed at me and yeah, the text message was shitty, but come on, Sammy, somewhere deep in your gut you know that's not right," Dean's imploring, cajoling, trying.

Sam blinks and the ceiling swirls in his vision. "It w-was...when the spectre had--"

"Dude," Dean hisses. "I told you I don't remember anything from that. Seriously. It's a total blank. I remember fighting with that guy at the hospital and the next thing I knew I was in the motel getting punched in the mouth by Garth. M'not lyin' about that, Sammy. That wasn't me. C'mon, you know, you _know_ ," and he punctuates his vehemence with a jab at Sam's bicep, "what it's like when something takes over. You can't control that shit. And that damn spectre was picking one little thing and blowing it the fuck up. You saw that with the other victims. Shit, man, Benny'd never be what you..."

Dean trails off and something, some long-forgotten sensation bursts to life in Sam's chest. He sucks in a shaky breath, adrift in a place he never thought he'd know again.  

"Benny n'me...we were...pretty much in a war together. Fought side by side and he never let me down, he didn't, but Sam, c'mon...you're...you," Dean exhales harshly on what sounds like a suspiciously wet cough, "it's not the same. Not by a long shot."

Sam wants to bury himself in his brother, grab him, hold on, threaten to never let go -- he wants it so bad his fingers flutter against the sheet. He goes to roll over, get closer, connect them bodily -- because Dean's always been able to stop the tremors -- but Dean's next words stay his motion.

"Since we're asking tough questions, how 'bout you tell me about Amelia?"

Sam stiffens, muscles compacting, his body locks up. "D-Dean..."

"Fair's fair, little brother."

He's right, Sam knows it, he's just not sure how he's going to put into words what the past year was like.

Sam's uneasy when he starts. "You gotta know..." he stumbles a little, "what happened...in that l-lab, after...Dean, you were just gone. Blinked out. And C-Crowley took Kevin and it was just m-me and I didn't...didn't know what to do, where to look. No one was t-talking. I asked," Sam puts everything he's got into those two syllables. "I asked, you gotta believe me."

He takes a chance and makes eye contact with Dean -- his brother's patient, expectant, waiting.

So he continues, "I j-just...I made you stone one, like you said," Sam looks away, digs his thumb into the palm of his left hand -- even though there's nothing there but scar tissue -- because after it healed, the action, the sensation is still like a balm, a mechanism to combat everything, "I did. I b-built on it, like you said, and when things were getting kind of okay, when I had a handle on...stuff...you were just g-gone. I was so scared, Dean," his entire torso shimmies with the remembered fear. "I d-don't know if I can really explain it. I stayed in motion for so long, just thought if I could keep moving, it would be okay, I d-don't," the past clogs his throat, "Don't really remember much at all about those first few months and then. I hit R-Riot and it was weird, it was like, suddenly, I had this being, this creature that I was responsible for and I knew, I just knew in my gut, I had to take care of him, you know?"

Dean nods without speaking and even in the dim light, Sam innately understands that his brother really does get it.

"A-and Amelia, she…was the vet who took care of him," Sam's momentum runs out as he realizes how vastly different his surroundings are now as compared to then -- in this small bed in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, how his brother's presence stirs his blood -- it always has -- how Dean makes his breath go sideways, how even in the dark, Sam can see the brightness in the world because Dean's next to him, where he's supposed to be.

And he knows, with a painful certainty, exactly what he's been missing for the past year.

It's like he's talking through sand when he says, "W-we weren't…we just were hiding, actually. From pretty much everything. It was a normal life, it was, like I s-said, but…"

He's not sure how to finish the statement.

_I felt half alive, even with someone beside me._

_I never knew where I was when I woke up in the morning because I didn't have you as a barometer._

_It wasn't worth it without you there._

Somehow, he thinks Dean gets all that, too.

Dean falls back against the mattress with a lung-billowing huff. "Can't believe you made me have a huge chick flick moment. And in a bed, no less."

Sam's laugh jolts out of him, a total surprise, but this is so typical, it's so  _Dean_ , it's refreshing on an intrinsic level and joy fizzes through him, even as he feigns indignation, "Me? How did I do this?"

"I make a move and you get all reflective and shit," Dean quips.

Sam opens his mouth on a smart remark at the same time Dean shifts into Sam's space and they're suddenly face to face and all the air seems to leave the room in a rush.

"You gonna shut up for the second move?" Dean whispers as he lightly traces Sam's arm.

Sam nods, rubbing their noses together, anticipation burning him from the inside out.

"Yeah?" Dean murmurs, almost like he's asking permission, making sure.

"Yes, please," Sam confirms -- needy, wide open, begging, latching onto handfuls of his brother's t-shirt -- just as their mouths merge, lips, tongues, teeth melding in the hottest, almost obscenely deep kiss Sam can remember experiencing.

Dean -- everything that's good and right and amazing about his brother -- bursts over him, cascading pleasure and warmth and bliss and for the first time in more than a year, something just fits, clicks over inside him, like it should be -  _finally_  - and the silliest noise slips out from behind Sam's teeth.

It's an absurd cooing sound and makes Dean pull back with a quizzical expression.

Sam speaks past the embarrassment to the truth beneath. "Missed you. So fucking much, Dean. I can't…"

Dean's chin jerks up and down, his teasing attitude turned solemn. "Me, too, Sammy. Fought so goddamn hard to get right…back…here…"

The last three words are separated by quick, chaste kisses and Sam's lost -- utterly, entirely gone for his brother -- and he knows, deep in the heart of everything he is, that the cabin, the planet, the universe could burn down around them and he wouldn't choose to be anywhere else but tucked up right alongside Dean.

Where he belongs.

It's with the same, goofy noise that he scoops up Dean, wraps around him bodily, like he's wanted to do for so long and brings them flush together, separated by their clothing, but skin on skin everywhere else -- from the tops of their thighs down almost to their toes and just a tiny strip on their bellies where their t-shirts have bunched up. It's electric and delicious, like the first drink of water after a long run or the initial bite of food after going days without and Sam rolls, brings his brother on top of him, surrounds himself with Dean and it's the best he's felt for longer than he can remember.

They bite and nibble and lick each other, reacquaint themselves with what they already know but lost for a while.

Sam stretches out, shifts his legs so that Dean can slot perfectly between them, aligning their cocks side by side, separated by two thin layers of material, their hips grinding and rolling like cogs in a rotating gear system.

It's so much sensation all at once and Sam's scared to death his balls are gonna empty faster than the first time he jerked off when he was thirteen, but still, he can't get enough and he can't slow down -- Dean tastes of stale soda and a little bit of whiskey and a touch of toothpaste turned sour from sleep and he could easily feast on his brother for the rest of his life and never get hungry or tire of the flavor.

The heat and warmth of Dean all along his chest and belly and groin steal what little breath Sam has left, but he's way more concerned about getting his hands on his brother than the lack of oxygen. Sam's fingers travel up the flushed skin of Dean's lower back, bringing his t-shirt along, skimming cotton all the way to Dean's shoulders and with a grunt, they separate only long enough for Sam to flip the garment over Dean's head and toss it somewhere beyond the foot of the bed. Sam's not sure which of them bridges the tiny gap first, but they're back to kissing -- almost eating each other's mouths, clawing to be interlocked again -- in less than a second.

It's like they've synced up, motions countered in perfect accord, finally on the same page, the same road, both reaching for the same goal and the realization spikes pleasure deep in Sam's gut.

He's grabbing and mauling and kneading the skin of Dean's back -- everywhere he can reach -- to the rhythm of their mouths and it's insane, dizzying, powerful, unrestrained.

It's only when the pad of his thumb brushes a relatively long mark on Dean's neck -- something he hadn't noticed before, an injury that's more of a scab than any real threat, but still, he inhales sharply, a soft sound of recognized pain and draws away a little.

"W-what?" he asks, voice completely messed up, fingers tracing what looks like a relatively clean cut.

Dean's clearly confused, focused on Sam's mouth -- which throbs so obviously with the pulse of his blood and Dean's taste that surely his brother has to see it -- and he growls, "Sam…"

Sam eludes Dean's attempt to realign their lips with a quiet, "Tell me."

Sam doesn't want there to be anything about Dean he doesn't know. Ever again.

Dean's clearly put upon, but he grumbles, "The other vamp that was after Benny got a piece of me. Not a big deal. Healed up fine."

For a second, the  _should have beens_  buzz through Sam's mind, but he deliberately puts them aside to concentrate on the now, what's right in front of him, and he takes Dean's head in his hands and sounds inexplicably young when he says, "Can I kiss it and make it better?"

He can actually feel Dean's reaction -- a tremor that seems to travel his brother's whole body.

It's what they used to do when they were kids, a simple solution that has no medicinal value whatsoever but meant the world to two little boys left on their own more often than not.

Apparently, it carries a similar weight to two grown men nearly a decade later.

Dean blinks, three times in rapid succession, a telltale sign he's trying to fight off his emotions and he nods.

Sam's careful, tender like it might still hurt, when he lays his lips against the scar. It's not bleeding, not hotter than the skin around it, so logically, he knows it's nothing more than raised skin where something sliced Dean open in the past, it's not a danger or anything that needs actual treatment, but he hopes with all his heart that Dean gets what he's saying.

_You shouldn't have gotten hurt._

_I'm sorry I wasn't there._

_Never again._

He thinks the message hits home when Dean turns his head and murmur  _kiss it and make it better_ in a way he never did when they were kids, before joining their mouths again in a wet, slip-slide of suction, penetration and consumption.

From there, Sam can't help it, he goes back to being grabby, hands everywhere, familiarizing himself with his brother all over again and he zeros in on the grey boxer briefs over Dean's ass.

Sam's never been able to understand wearing something that hugs the whole package in one place -- he's always liked the freedom of boxers, lets his boys hang wherever the hell they want -- but he sure can appreciate a tighter fit on his brother.

He loves to slither his fingers between the cotton and the globes of Dean's ass, only to flip back over the material because he knows it's a tease -- feeling the touch of skin only to have it muted a second later. He alternates between slow, lazy sweeps and strong, deep squeezes that pull Dean's asscheeks apart and have them both squirming and rolling against each other.

Dean's mouth scrapes off Sam's and he murmurs around ragged breaths, "God Sam, how 'bout you fuck me? Benny didn't do that either."

And Jesus, Dean says it just as Sam gives a good, hard yank to the smooth skin of his ass, and the tip of Sam's middle finger is right there, right along the puckered skin, shoved closer by the tightness of the boxer briefs, and all he can think is  _mine, never anyone else's_ , and it would take so little just to slide all the way inside -- to the meat of his hand -- hell, his whole fist -- and Sam actually has to slow himself down, remind himself that the possession isn't going to change, even if he doesn't fuck Dean in the next five seconds.

Dean is still his and at the moment, despite the suddenly raging need to split his brother open on his cock, he wants to be Dean's.

They're mindlessly grinding against each other and Sam has to try three times to make his voice work. "F-fuck Dean, yeah, I want to, Jesus, I really do, but you gotta do it…you gotta fuck me…I n-need you so fucking bad, you have no idea…"

Dean pulls back, sits on his haunches, jerking away from Sam's hands, taking the sheet with him, breath shredded. He shakes his head and pushes a palm into the air as Sam goes to grab him again, appears to be reaching for some kind of control. "Jesus, okay, you just gotta…stop with all that for a second…if you want me to do anything here…"

His brother's a sight. Lungs ballooning in and out, nipples peaked tight and stiff, lips puffy and wet from their kisses, precome making the grey briefs almost black at the tip of his hard dick. Fucking gorgeous.

Sam spreads his knees even further, juts his hips up, almost riding Dean's thighs and says, "Please, Dean. C'mon..."

Dean's chuckle is a little broken, "You're kind of a cockslut, Sammy."

Sam shoves his hands under the pillow, uses the headboard as leverage to push his hips even farther up Dean's lap. He can feel his t-shirt catch on the sheet, exposing his belly, the legs of his boxers ride up to his groin and he knows Dean's looking, can see the gleam in his brother's eyes even in the dim light. "I might be a you slut, actually," Sam whispers.

Dean falls forward for an incendiary kiss that leaves Sam breathless and his boxers soaked in precome before his brother hops off the bed commanding  _get that off_ accentuated with a general wave of his hand over Sam's body.

Sam's naked by the time Dean gets back with lube and a condom and he watches his brother strip off his boxer briefs with one drag of his arm. Free from the confines, Dean's cock bobs up, thick and red and wet and Sam needs it so bad, practically his entire body clenches and his legs twitch apart even more on the mattress, stretching his muscles and opening him to his brother.

Dean strokes himself once, twice, murmurs, "Jesus, Sammy…"

Dean's fingers get slick with his own precome and Sam wants Dean -- all of him -- inside him, filling him, nothing between them, no barriers, and in a fit of pique and brattiness, he tosses the condom as far as he can across the room.

"Sam…" Dean starts.

"No," Sam tells him, shaking his head, circling his ass against the sheet, "No condom. Never needed one before. Don't need it now."

Dean fists his cock at the base -- hard. "Maybe I need one. M'not gonna last long otherwise…"

A flare of heat shoots up Sam's spine at the thought that Dean being bare inside him means he can't control himself as well.

He knows the feeling.

"Doesn't matter," Sam whispers, holding a hand out to his brother. "I just wanna feel you."

"Shit, Sammy," Dean groans as he crawls onto the bed, between Sam's legs and reaches for the lube.

The promise of Dean's wet fingers catches Sam's breath as his brother pops the cap. Sam tries to help, tries to position himself as best he can. It's glorious when Dean's first two fingers slide all the way in.

" _Ugnh_ , oh God," Sam hisses between clenched teeth. It's sloppy -- Dean's always been a fan of too much lube -- but Sam loves the spread of his delicate, sensitive muscles and the thick feeling of Dean plugging his ass. It burns because it's been a while -- a long while.

He'd tried it with Amelia, only once -- let her, told her it was okay, soothed her, talked her through slipping a slender finger inside him, and it had instantly felt so wrong, so abhorrent, Sam had balked immediately. He just couldn't do it. That's likely the moment, deep inside, buried in a whole lot of denial, when Sam knew the truth of their relationship.

But now, God, now, it's like everything has converged on the hot, heavy feeling in his ass and he can see Dean, so much concentration on the task, on preparing him, getting him ready and it's a boundless sensation, but at the same time completely grounding, like the random pieces have finally come together and things are back the way they should be, the way they're meant to be and he's breathless with how right it all is.

Dean's mouth lifts in a small smirk. "You always did like the prep as much as the main event, didn't you, Sammy?"

Sam feels his own smile shape his face as he answers in a full-body undulation and a hard constriction of the muscles along the rim of his ass.

His brother chokes out an abrasive  _fuck_  as he slides a third finger alongside the other two.

Sam closes his eyes and hooks his toes into the sheet beneath him, his tender flesh expanding to accommodate the width of Dean's fingers.

He's close, he can feel it, but he doesn't want to come this way, so he asks, "Dean, please, enough…"

Usually, he has to beg a lot longer because Dean loves to hear it, but tonight there's an urgency, a compelling drive Sam thinks they both must sense to be together, to fuck, after such a long time apart and Dean pulls his fingers out, slicks his own dick up almost faster than Sam can process and then, his brother eases forward, dragging himself along Sam and it's almost beyond words.  

It's a rush, all that skin, warm and smooth and hard and Dean and God, Sam never wants to leave this bed. Their cocks line up, precome and lube a hot, slippery mess between them, and a gush of pleasure so intense, for a second, Sam's afraid he shot his load too soon, rattles all along his body and he clings, arms and legs, to Dean, anchoring them together like the satisfying click of two matching puzzle pieces locking.

"Oh, Dean, God," he mumbles against his brother's neck.

"Right there with you, baby brother," Dean whispers. "C'mere…"

Sam whines -- all out whines -- when Dean latches onto his mouth and he loses knowledge of everything but Dean's lips, dick and hands. The kiss goes longer than Sam can measure and he's incoherent, when he chants  _now now now_  around Dean's mouth.

Dean's hips slip a few inches lower and somehow, without pulling away from their full-body hug, he manages to line them up perfectly and get his cock all the way inside Sam in one determined, inexorable roll.

It's practically heart-stopping, the overwhelming sensation of being so full when it seems like he's been empty for so long. Sam can feel the overly responsive flesh strain, be coaxed apart, render, let Dean in and the completion, the veracity of it reconciles in his bones.

They're still for a few minutes, gasping, cinched tight together and despite the pounding in Sam's blood and the staggering need to come, to spill everything that's been building with each heartbeat onto their stomachs, he's strangely content.

Dean's lips move against Sam's ear when he whispers, "So fucking tight. Missed this, Sammy. Missed you so much."

It's like the words spur Dean into motion, fuel him, and his hips begin to circle, the circumference getting wider with each rotation, and just like that, Sam's delirious with the urge to let go. 

Sam knows he should feel guilty -- Dean's doing most of the work, the thrusting, giving friction, churning his hips with his knees spread wide, opening Sam, ass and thighs and heart even farther -- but it's so much of what Sam's needed for more than a year -- surrounded by Dean, breathing in the scent of his brother, connected inside and out -- that he's caught up, wants to stay suspended in this moment, the rubbing, the brushing of muscles and sliding of skin on skin. He can't seem to make himself actively participate because he wants to catalogue and remember all of it in case it's taken away again. He never wants to forget the feeling of Dean here. Like this.

The thought makes him shiver and hold on even harder.

"I gotcha, baby," Dean murmurs, somehow understanding the swirling mass of Sam's emotions. "Never letting go again…"

Sam can actually tell that his nipples tighten into hard nubs against his brother's chest because of the intense pulse that shudders through him and he cants his hips just a little bit higher, loses the power of speech and breath and it's too much, Dean inside him, on top of him, all around him and his orgasm rushes up his spine on a wave of pleasure so acute, he swears even his scalp tingles.

"Ah, fuck, Sammy," Dean grunts and Sam can feel his ass spasm around his brother's cock and he knows by Dean's frozen posture and rhythmic jolting that he's coming, too.

It's so perfect, Sam clutches Dean's lower back and his hair and closes his eyes to savor.

After a minute, Dean twitches a little, but Sam keeps him close and whispers, "No. Not yet."

Dean wiggles, just enough for Sam to gasp quietly and involuntarily squeeze his muscles around Dean's dick, making a sloppy noise between them and they both whimper faintly.

"M'too heavy," Dean offers, sounding out of it, almost like he's drunk.

Sam grazes his nose along Dean's cheek. "Never in a million years…please…"

Dean settles then, with a yawning sigh, and actually tucks his head under Sam's chin.

By the time their heartbeats and breathing have slowed to a more normal pace, the sky is starting to brighten with the first hint of dawn. Sam's not completely sure what it is, the changing light in the room, the fact that his brother seems to be purposefully as still as he can make himself so they stay intimately connected, or the fact that sleep is finally dragging his eyelids down, but something makes him realize, really see, the truth from the past few weeks.

Sam wasn't able to recognize it at the time, but when she'd said  _you're the first thing I think about when I wake up in the morning and the last thing before I go to sleep_ , it pinged wrong to him. Not that he didn't understand it or appreciate it, but that it was coming from the wrong person.

He wants that -- really, always has -- from Dean. And only Dean.

It must be the pattern that the sun's starting to draw on the walls because something inside Sam thinks there's a chance he might be able to have it.

Dean licks around Sam's pulse and whispers, "Good?"

Sam ducks his chin, makes eye contact, the brightness in the room painting Dean's face and his brother's expression is so open, so candid, so natural, Sam sounds funny when he speaks, "So good."

Dean bites Sam jaw, soft, and says, "M'gonna fall asleep on you if you don't let me get up."

Sam head moves back and forth in the negative, even as Dean's softening cock shifts slightly out of him. "Don't care."

Dean drops his head back down and warns, "Better not hear you bitching when we wake up."

Sam chuckles and God, it feels really good.

Silence wraps around them and Sam drifts for a bit before he whispers, "Both feet, right?"

He expects Dean to be asleep, is a little shocked when his brother answers, "Both of 'em. Right here." 

Despite his exhaustion, Sam stays awake for a long while after Dean nods off, but this time it's mostly because he doesn't want to miss a second of being curled up tight against his brother.  
  
~ end


End file.
